


Catalyst

by silversurfer



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-03 00:20:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silversurfer/pseuds/silversurfer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Banner had said it before, that they weren’t a team, that they were a chemical mixture to make chaos, a time-bomb, and the truth of that showed when desperation ceased to buffer them. Now what they needed was common ground, and a catalyst to throw them all together. Sometimes a stranger is enough to do that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rather than going by the comics, which have unbelievably confusing time-shenanigans, I’m taking this as movie-verse. Which means Tony’s eyes are dark brown, not blue.  
> Obadiah talks rather mournfully about the idea of ‘killing to golden goose’. This happy little brainchild of mine came from the idea that he would look for Stark’s replacement before offing him, someone else he could control and feed off of. He needs an insurance policy, another great mind to bring SI into the next decade.  
> So he lies in wait, and makes his investments …

 

  
_“Our wills and fates do so contrary run_ . That  _our devices still are overthrown_ ;  _Our thoughts are ours_ ,  _their ends none of our own_ .”

\- Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 2

 

**Spring, 1998**

            There were precisely 26 steps to her apartment, considering the one landing-and-turn, and she could recognize expensive shoes once the wearer had mounted three of them.

            A slight wrap of knuckles on her door came in a little over twenty seconds after that, and she peeled the blinds apart one more time to glance at the silver Jaguar XJ (X308) to memorize the license plate number before answering the door. Surprisingly, it wasn’t vanity, but she supposed this was a more non-descript sort of visit.

            One quick glance around, and any sign that she wasn’t simply a young, hot thing living alone was gone. “Coming!” she shouted. Ripping off her apron and shoving it in a drawer, she went to answer the door.

            Pulling it open and tugging an errant dark curl behind her ear, she smiled to greet the tight-lipped man at the door. He was a good three to five inches taller than her, with bright blue eyes and facial hair that was pepper gravitating towards salt. When she asked “Hello, sir; do we know each other?” he answered with closed smile and a Southern drawl. Holding out a hand to shake hers, he spoke.

            “Ms. Luxemburg, I presume?”

            “Please,” she said with a smile, hiding her rigidity with the deliberate loosening of her shoulders. “Call me Anna.”

            “Anna it is, then. Obadiah Stane. May I come in?”

            Despite being in her home-turf, she felt her jeans and t-shirt lost her some advantage against his three-piece suit, dark gray with a cornflower tie. “I’m not in the habit of inviting strange men into my apartment, you know, but I recognize the name.” She stepped to the side. “Please. Come in. Can I get you something? Coffee? Tea? Water?”

            “Any brandy?” He asked, greedily rubbing his hands together in a way she presumed was typical of the elite in business.

            “Nope, sorry. Fresh out.” The truth was, she didn’t drink, but quipping was more comfortable than sharing intimate facts of her no-longer-so-private life. She had noticed the home-phone tap a week ago, and acted accordingly.

            “Water would be fine, then. Thank you.”

            She took a moment to steady herself on the counter in the kitchen, keeping herself from hyperventilating while pouring the water from her fridge tap. “Ice?” she called back, voice steadier than she believed.

            “Yes, please.”

            Returning, she set them both on the coffee table and sat opposite him on the couch as he spread, arms wide over the back, to settle into the armchair. “So, to what do I owe the honor?”

            Obadiah smiled. “So you do know who I am?”

            She leaned forward to take a drink. “You’re Stark Industries, that’s who you are. The man with a plan behind the eccentric genius. The guy that keeps the wheels spinning. I know who you are.”

            “Oh good. That should speed things along.” He took a drink himself. “According to our records, Anna, you’ve refused employment with my company what, three times now? To work instead at, what was is? Apple Computers? That’s a sinking ship.”

            “Some of us don’t think so.” She smiled. This was safe territory. “Three sounds about right, but we can make it four. I have a strict ‘no weapons manufacturing’ policy. Doesn’t exactly fit with your company’s motto.”

            “Oh, Anna, don’t be so cold,” he chastened, swirling the ice in his glass so it clinked. “I’ve gathered you were not so dismissive of a business associate of mine.”

             Her blood ran cold. “I … I can’t say I know what you’re talking about.”

            “Oh? It’s alright, he sometimes has difficulty recalling such things himself. It was ’94, spring, I believe you had just graduated summa cum laude? There were drinks. Tony _personally_ congratulated you?”

            Anna stood. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

            Obadiah laughed. “I don’t blame you, Anna. You’re but one of many; Tony’s famous for his charm. I’m just here to ask if he left you something neither of us can find elsewhere, and if we can mutually benefit from this situation.”

            She swallowed, realizing he knew he could stay as long as he damn well pleased. “I’m sorry, Stane, but I don’t think I can help you in that regard.”

            “So proper? Motherhood is becoming on you, Anna, but stealth isn’t.” He drained his water as her face got red with anger. “I admire your tenacity in keeping your calls sweet and easy, but the mail gave you away. Where is the little tyke?”

            “She’s at daycare, and I hate to disappoint, but she’s not Tony’s.”

            He raised his eyebrows. “Is that so?” He hummed and leaned back, as though he hadn’t even considered that possibility. “The numbers do line up so perfectly, and you’ve already lied to me once today.”

            She smiled openly at him, spreading her hands. “Sorry, Stane; some of us had pretty active sex lives at college.”

            He laughed loudly and fully, before letting his eyes rake over her no-nonsense ponytail and humble b-cup with masked skepticism. “Agreed, agreed. What a disappointment.” Pushing himself out of the chair, he held out his hand to shake hers. “Let me know if there’s any change in that department. And,” removing a card from his pocket, he handed it to her. “let me know, either way, if you change your mind about that job. We have a medical tech division that would _love_ to have you, Anna.”

            The moment the door solidly closed behind him, she counted steadily to ten before running to open the door to her bedroom. The three year-old barreled into her before she even had a chance to crouch, and her mother scooped her up and clung to her. “Honey …” she breathed, sighing in relief as she held on, until the child pushed back. Her deep brown eyes met her mother’s bottle green.

             “Can I play with my trains now, mom? I think I can get them to go faster.” Anna nodded, brushing back the dark waves of her hair, a mind too innocent to have the slightest clue what was going on.

 

**Winter, 1997**

            Obadiah sighs, face in his hands “What would you have me do? Clone him?”

            “He embarrasses the company, I know,” One of the female board members put forth. “We see the stock plunges. But it’s just girls, and it’s fairly predictable now. We need him, Stane, to keep us afloat. Military technology aside, times are good, which, for us, is bad. He’s advancing the communications division, medical division …”

            “But he’s more trouble than that’s worth!” One of the oldest men on the board piped up. “Howard was with women, and did all of that without causing half the scandal! When it was important, he was _discreet_! He didn’t release a _sex tape_!” He sighed, holding his head. “Oh, and the _men_ , Obi … Remember the Brazilian model? Just … _Why_?”

            “What we need is a way to _control_ him. _Channel_ the outbursts.” One at the far end added.

            “He’s Howard’s son,” a younger male board member mentioned. Younger in that he didn’t need a walker or hearing aid. “There’s not much we can do, is there? Blood’s thicker than water, and his name’s on the side of the building. Not much we can do about that.”

            Stane nodded. None of these were thoughts he hadn’t had before.

            The woman, at once, leaned back and sighed. “So, Stane, unless you find another ‘Stark’ running around, I suppose we’re just out of luck and dealing with it.”

            So that gave Stane the worst of ideas.

 

**Fall, 2001**

            _“Alexandra Luxemburg, please report to the principal’s office. I repeat, Alexandra Luxemburg, principal’s office.”_

            Running down the hall, she shoved the glass door, and the six year-old barreled into a very tall man.

            “Sorry, sir, sorry,” she muttered, moving past him to the office. With a chuckle, he followed her.

            The principal of L. P. Collins Elementary, a man too young for that comb over and thick glasses, thin and, at most, 40, smiled warmly and gestured for her to sit down. “Lex, we have a very famous and important man here to visit you. Have you two met?”

            The child looked up to see the same man that she had barreled into not seconds ago. She nodded.

            The man filled in. “She ran into me outside.”

            Lex frowned. The dark, Southern rumble sounded very familiar. Not in a good way.

            The principal smiled. “Well, Lex, Mr. Stane got you out of classes for the rest of the day. Isn’t that nice of him?”

            Lex’s frown deepened. “I like classes. Except when they’re boring.”

            Mr. Stane chuckled. “Chip off the old block.” Reaching out, he gripped her chin with a hold neither tender nor forceful, and tilted her face up. “God, you look just like him.”

            Spunky as either of her parents, she pushed his hand off of her and scowled. The principal laughed, easing the tension.

            “Let’s see if it’s not coincidence.” Leaning over, Mr. Stane pulls a large bundle of papers out of his briefcase, a stack maybe an inch and a half thick, and laid it in front of her. “I know, paper. Archaic, yes? Private files, though; paper can’t be hacked …” He mumbled, as though talking only to himself. The child nodded, though, understanding. The principal seemed to take this as his cue to go, leaving the door open. “Do as much of it as you can,” Stane stated, pulling out his own thick black laptop and opening it. “Skip anything you can’t handle.”

            Lex dug in.

            It was six hours later that the papers were shoved back towards Stane. They had skipped lunch because, upon asking Lex if she would like to take a break and hit the cafeteria, she’s answered “Just a minute …” followed by a flurry of fierce scribbling, and never came back around to the point, even two hours later. By then, he was dozing off, his head in one hand, bored out of his mind. “Finished?”

            She shrugged. “I think I missed two.”

            With a sigh, he handed her the next packet. “I should probably look this over, first, but here’s the next one. Wouldn’t want to waste time.” Ducking his head outside, he asked “Can we get someone to bring us something? You know, to eat?”

 

 **Fall, 2001** (Two Days Later)

            It was a house, this time, and a beige Aston Martin Vanquish parked in front of it. Anna Luxemburg had moved.

            The small apartment on the outskirts of San Francisco was now traded for a little house in Cupertino, CA. It was quaint, well-kept, and, from a business perspective, a very good piece of land. Mr. Stane intended to congratulate her.

            A knock on the door, and the very same woman answered it. “Mr. Stane, how lovely to see you,” she commented, looking all the same as she had three years ago, if slightly more tired. She stepped to the side and gestured for him to enter. “I’ve been expecting you.”

            “Oh? Is that so?” He smiled.

            “Yes, well, when Lexi told me she was pulled out of class the other day, and about precisely the kind of test and questions she was made to answer. I knew you were onto me again.” She seemed remarkably at ease for that statement, which pleased Obadiah to no end.

            “So I suppose that means you’re ready to listen to reason?” He asked, settling onto the yellow loveseat she had positioned adjacent to her armchair.

            She wandered towards the kitchen. “I’ve been known to do that, from time to time. Brandy?”

            “Yes, definitely,” he agreed, thinking 4pm was just about late enough to have one. “I see you’ve stuck with your fruit company. Not a bad decision, in retrospect.”

            Anna laughed. “No, not at all, all things considered. I told you that ship wasn’t sinking.” Bringing him his drink and settling diagonal of him, she grinned.

            He smiled. “I caught on about a year later and replenished my investments. But many congratulations on your success; this is a wonderful place you’ve got here, and you look as lovely as ever.”

            “And you cut a nice figure, if greyer,” she quipped. “How’s business on your end?”

            “Since the attacks? Never better.”

            “War-profiteering has always been profitable,” she conceded.

            “So are Asian sweatshops, I hear.”

            Her face darkened. “No company’s perfect, but we’re not Nike.”

            “True indeed,” he toasted, “but I came to talk about the future of something outside of either corporation.”

            She leaned back, for all the world unreadable. “I’m aware.”

            “Aside from the two of us, is anyone else aware it’s his?”

            “She.”

            “Pardon?”

            “‘She’, not ‘it’, and what makes you think she’s his? Lots of geniuses at MIT.”

            He sighed. “Oh, leave off it, Anna! Your college friends don’t seem to think you were loose, and you hadn’t had a boyfriend since early junior year.” She looked affronted, but he simply raised a brow and sipped again. “I do my research. She tested off the charts, and she looks just like him. _Just_ like him.”

            “Many of us test off your charts, Obadiah, but I suppose that confirms my suspicions.” She took a gulp of her own drink, and it burned all the way down. “You did administer that test yourself.”

            “Yes, I did. Now, where is she?”

            Anna glared. “Visiting a friend. Playdate."

            Obadiah hummed. “Why is it she’s always out when I come to visit?”

            She shrugged. “I keep her life full and active. Give her some sense of normalcy.”

            “But Anna,” he stated softly, leaning forward, “She’s not normal.”

            “I’m aware.” The young mother shrugged. “She helped me fix my car a week ago after I gave her a book on it.”

            “Precisely! Which is why she needs a future insured, and who better to insure that than Stark Ind.?”

            Anna laughed. “Who better to insure that than me? I’m her mother, and she has a bright future of building the world ahead of her. She could go anywhere, do anything, and she’s not exactly disadvantaged. I see no reason she should sell her soul to the devil this early.” However, downing the last of her alcohol, she nodded in concession. “Fine, though, give me your sales pitch.”

            “Private tutoring, in addition to paid-in-full tuition to the best technical schools in the country. Tony went to MIT at fifteen, and I see no reason Alexandra couldn’t do the same, with the right environment to cultivate her mind.” He spread his fingers in a magnanimous, all-encompassing gesture, and continued speaking at a slower, liltingly wistful rate. “She would have a promised position of great prestige and salary with our corporation, training with the finest inventors in the country. She could live a very comfortable and advantaged life, if only she would promise a number of years of service to the company. I was thinking twenty, but I’d be willing to haggle, considering I doubt she would want to leave.” He smiled. “Additionally, I would offer a hefty pension to you, Ms. Luxemburg, beyond what your Apple Computers could or would think to offer you, to keep you comfortable for the rest of your days.”

            “So you think I’d sell my kid out for money.” She snorted. “Figures. You’d probably sell out your own mother for it. You probably pulled this shit with Tony himself. Should she like, on scholarship or from my pocket, when the time comes and she gets in, she can go to MIT, CalTech, wherever whenever she likes. If fifteen’s the right time, fine, but at once, I see no need nor benefit to rushing her. Keep your pension.”

            The smile fell from Obadiah’s face, and he tilted in a different direction. “Perhaps I should appeal to you from another angle, and explain to you that this is one of the only ways Alexandra could ever have the chance to meet her father. And not simply meet, as you did, but get to know the man. Work with him. And perhaps, one day, she would be able to tell him who she was. How can you not want that for her?”

            Anna shook her head. “I cannot see how Tony, as he is now, could be anything like a role-model or father-figure, or that he would do anything more than throw money at her and walk away. He’s slept with a thousands women if one since we met. If that weren’t the case, or if that should change, I would bring the child to Tony myself.”

            Leaning back, he stroked his beard with two fingers, following the sharp line of his own chin. “You’re not making this easy for me, Anna.”

            She smiled, refilling his glass. “I didn’t intend to.”

            “Oh, and I had so hoped you would,” he muttered, placing his briefcase heavily on the table as he opened it. “Now, Ms. Luxemburg, that that arrangement is off the table, and I’m afraid you won’t be getting it back, I have a few more offers to ply you with. See, as a weapon’s manufacturer, I know the value of a Plan B. I do apologize that I’m only accustomed to threatening ones.”

            Two large stacks of paper were placed upon the table.

            “You’ll find, now, that there are two deals left you can cut. The first, well, let’s start with the more drastic one, shall we?” He tapped the pile on the left that she had already begun to read in growing horror. “Say I have already informed the right people, at various levels of the judicial system, that you are meeting with me to disclose valuable information, violating patent laws and intellectual property rights but, more importantly, attempting to sell me several leaks by which to honey-hook Defense Department secrets to market to them for things not yet public.” He smiled. “See, I already have this loophole, but with your hacking history, humble as it may be, and more importantly, my value to the army and powers that be, it would be easy enough to create that paper-trail, claim you sold it to me. You would be blacklisted. Forget your Apple job, even acquitted miraculously of the gravest crime, evidence of patent theft, and intellectual property theft, would pore from all directions, and you would never find work again.” He sighed. “I would miss that loophole.

            “Now, even without my handpicked jury, a jury I assure you will be there, and no one will ever tie to me, you might get what? Twenty, thirty years in prison at best? Oh, that would be awful, wouldn’t it? And during all that time, Anna, your lovely Lex will be a ward of the state, daughter of a jailbird. Little more.” He mocked a remorseful visage, before continuing.  “What a shame, hm? Not such a bright future, certainly no childhood spent in this house. But fear not, I would find her a more compliant guardian, a stricter home, a place of the mind, and in the bouncing from place to place all foster children endure, I would be the only consistent figure she had. She wouldn’t know you, but through scant visitation and the thousands on the outside telling her you’re a lunatic. She would come to Stark Ind. anyway.”

            Anna had gone white as a sheet, placing the stack on the table with lightly shaking hands. Moving to touch her face, she asked “My other option?”

            He grinned, waving a slow hand over the right stack. “Life goes on. As usual. However, in six months, when the new plant is built, as we are expanding into northern California, you resign from Apple and join our workforce. You would have to sign a few papers, legally obligating your service, and giving me legal, but really only technical, guardianship of the child. Regardless, you two remain here, tacit and undisturbed. Additionally, a private tutor comes to this pretty little house starting just after winter break to begin tutoring your daughter, two evenings a week of your choosing, and it grows from there. Then, you would still be here. Planning her day schedule. Teaching her violin. Insuring she eats properly. No one will ever have to take her away from you, Anna, you just say the word and she stays.”

            “But you still have this.” She taps the left. “And technically her.”

            “Of course. Precisely. But she would know you as her mother, simply with me and Stark Ind. as omnipresent mentors in her life. And that alternative is an awful lot of hassle, wouldn’t you agree, Anna? A rather permanent solution. Any temporary problems would be fixed in a more subtle, politic manner.” She supposed that was supposed to make her more comfortable, but it didn’t. “You would still be her mother. I have little interest in controlling her day to day life.”

            “Until she’s old enough to be of use to you.”

            “Of use to the _company_."

            She scoffed. “Of course. And so I’m to assume this would also imply some kind of forced internship at Stark Industries.”

            He smiled. “I’ll doubt she’ll need to be forced. For Tony, he’s a kid in a candy store at those labs, but yes, that would be expected.”

            “And what of her when she grows? When she achieves legal rights?”

            Obadiah grabbed his papers on the left and straightened them, putting them away as though a deal had been reached. “Well, I suppose we’ll see. Either things will flow smoothly and her contracts renewed with Stark Industries, or she may face an ultimatum just like yourself, Ms. Luxemburg. That’s entirely up to her. The point now, is, however, that you either sign those papers on your right, and see me again in six months, or you can expect Plan B to commence immediately, and see me in court tomorrow.”

            She nodded, reaching to the right.

            He caught her wrist sharply. “These contracts are legally binding, Anna. Once you sign these, there’s no point attempting out. There’s not a court in this country that wouldn’t side with me, and I don’t want anymore trouble from you.”

            She swallowed, and nodded. “I’ll sign.”

            He released her hand and grinned, like Christmas had come early. “I thought you might. I had very much hoped you would make the right choice this time.”

 

**Fall, 2012**

            Director Fury let out an irritated breath. “What would you have me do? Make the good captain fly?”

            The many screens of the World Security Council glared back at him in an unnerving manner. “We just think,” the French connection began, her voice lilting but forceful, “That the wisest course of action would be to have more air-bound Avengers. Thor and flies in bouts, but mostly not, and the Hulk can leap, but not as precisely. Now, simply Iron Man would be good enough for now, if Tony Stark wasn’t so unstable, and that skill proved exceedingly useful. In addition, his engineering capabilities should also, whenever possible, be backed up.”

            “Stark has shown remarkable dedication. He flew the nuke you assholes aimed at New York into a wormhole!” He stopped to breathe before he realized he’d called them assholes. As they made no note of it, he assumed they recognized they deserved it.

            “One adrenaline-fueled incident of reckless heroism aside, he’s the least committed to the team. He cannot seem to get along with anyone but the monster, from Romanov’s report.”

            “That ‘monster’ gets along with him because they’re two of the smartest men in America. Geniuses have a certain … fondness for each other. “

            “Regardless, the team engages in reckless activities,” One of the older men spoke up, “And, out of his suit, Stark is one of the three unmodified humans on the team. Clint and Natasha, though definitely unique, can be more easily replaced with stock from our training programs.”

            Fury did not know how to take this without a sarcastic tone. “So you need a back-up engineer. A genius inventor on the bench, in case this one goes haywire or AWOL, or dies. Oh, and someone that can fly. Possibly distinct.”

            “Precisely!”

            And so the manhunt began.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Banner had said it before, that they weren’t a team, that they were a chemical mixture to make chaos, a time-bomb, and the truth of that showed when desperation ceased to buffer them. Now what they needed was common ground, and a catalyst to throw them all together. Sometimes a stranger is enough to do that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted for dodger084. Thank you for the comment, and inspiring me to put together my notes.

 

_“One man’s ‘magic’ is another man’s engineering. Supernatural is a null word.”_

\- Robert A. Heinlein

**Spring 1994**

            “Here. Grabbed you one.”

            Bottle green eyes glanced up from the counter she was tapping on, the smooth, confident voice breaking through her hundredth recitation.

            She could make out the form fairly well in the dark, and the light that shown through the crack in the curtain illuminated a red lens on his glasses, so that answered any questions. The tinkling sound of ice against glass made her glance down at the second tumbler in his hand. She gently pushed it back with the heel of her palm.

            “Thanks, but I can’t.” At raised eyebrows, she responded “Not 21 until next January.”

            “Ah.” He put it on the surface by her hand regardless, pulling off his suit jacket and throwing it over the chair. “No worries, I was drinking this shit when I was ten.”

            She hummed skeptically. “That’s less of an excuse for me, and more of warning for you. Bad parenting. Anyway, I need to concentrate.”

            “Really?” He peered over, trying to look at the sheet spread in front of her. She proceeded to pick it up and turn, so he followed from the other side.

            “Really, don’t s-”

            “Jesus, would you just hold still?” Sudden, warm hands on her hips held her in place from behind, and something in her gave, a shiver passing through almost comforting after the frenzied frustration she’d worked herself into. His warm breath on the back of her neck stuttered in a way that revealed a silent life. “Thank God. You’re so twitchy. And JARVIS says I fidget”

            “This year’s commencement speaker, C.E.O. of Stark Industries and summa cum laude of the graduate class of ’87, earning two master’s degrees since, the singular Mr. Tony Stark!”

            “Well, that’s my cue.” In contrast to the announcer, the warm half-whisper by her ear sounded startlingly intimate. Releasing her, he tapped the glass. “Drink this. And stop fretting. Watch the pros at work.” As he pulled back the curtain onto the stage, he flashed her a charming smile, and she saw the dynamic swagger of the man that stared up from the magazines, from all her clippings, out from the poster on her dorm room wall. “See you after,” he winked.

 

***

           

            “So. Did you drink it?”

            This time, he’d found her in the catered mingling after, much better lit and less private. She added sliced fruit to her plate. “Normally, the icebreaker would be a compliment to my speech.”

            He laughed. “Sure. Nice speech. Did you drink it?”

            She glanced at him from and smirked. “Maybe a little. Trying to have me at a disadvantage, Mr. Stark?”

            “Tony, and I doubt it.” He cocked his head and grinned. “Does it count as a disadvantage if I’ve had more than you?”

            “Given your liver’s steel by now?” She shrugged. “Probably.”

            “You presume a great deal about me, Ms. Luxemburg.”

            “You told me you’ve been drinking since you were ten. I have the right to be concerned.”

            He pressed a hand to his chest, widening his eyes with feigned drama. “Concerned? Oh, you do care!”

            She smiled and turned to him. “Probably shouldn’t, though. What’s your agenda, Stark?”

            He glanced over his glasses. “I should think it would be obvious.”

“Ah, but I wouldn’t want to assume.”

            He laughed at that, carefree. “Well, Obi sent me to find bright young minds, offer internships or jobs …” He stirred his drink. “I came here to find the prettiest girls and, mm, offer them a more temporary position in my company.”

            “Company? Nice word-play there.”

            “Yeah, well, lucky me, I found an all-in-one package. Head of your class? Very impressive. And computer and medical engineering to boot.”

            She nodded. “Apple Co. thought so when they set me up with a job in advance.”

            “Oh, ouch.” He flinched. “That hurts deep.”

            “Sorry to disappoint.”

            “I can’t even boast our benefits package?”

            “Nope. I signed with them, five years. Besides, I know your benefits. I do my research. As much as I’d love to have a chance to pursue medical work with you, I can’t make money for a weapon’s maker.”

            “Ah. Hippies.” He looked like he’d swallowed something sour, and she cringed a little at her faux pas. She drummed her fingers, trying to think of something better to add than _I’ve admired you since I was 14 and that’s why I came to MIT. I’m half in love with you already._ What else could she say?

            “I loved your arc reactor. I know that was Howard, but your improvements to energy output were impressive.”

            He tossed her another wan smile. “Thanks. Lost money on it, though. Doesn’t go boom.”

            “Isn’t that the way of it,” she forfeited. They lapsed into uncomfortable silence. “Shouldn’t you be touting those benefits now? To someone who isn’t a lost cause?”

            “But you haven’t replied to my other offer.” The smile was sly, secretive, belonging to a showman, and as pleased as a cat with a canary. She resented it, seeing the deception after the desperate truth she’d seen a breath ago. Regardless, she understood the need for it.

            “Offer?”

            He chuckled, and leaned on his hand. “Are you really that oblivious, Anna?”

            “Enlighten me, Tony.” She spread her hands magnanimously. “Give me your pitch.”

            He let out a rattled sigh, and she smelled alcohol. “I haven’t put this much effort into chatting up a girl since fifth grade. Can we just fuck already?”

 

***

            Pressed against the door of her dorm room, she gasped, untangling herself briefly to unlock it. They tumbled in, and she flicked the light before recalling the walls. A laugh was startled out of him as he saw a poster of himself not two feet from the one of Steve Jobs. A small plant on the desk had a few open sketches of the arc reactor by it.

            “Forget that,” she demanded, kicking off her shoes and pulling him back into a kiss, unbuttoning his shirt. It was hot, messy, frantic.

            He returned it with gusto, bringing them both to the bed and kneeling between her legs before pressing and insistent hand to her and pushing her away. “Wait, wait, where’s my jacket?”

            “What?”

            “My suit jacket?”

            She frowned. “I think you left it back stage. Is it that important?”

            He snorted. “Well, it had my condom in it.”

            She sat back on her haunches. “Oh.”

            He scratched the back of his head nervously. “I’m guessing that means you don’t have one.”

            “Yeah, no,” she said slowly, running a hand up his arm.

            “But you’re on the pill, right?” He squinted up hopefully, his tone conveying ‘all girls are on the pill these days’.

            No. No she wasn’t. “Yes.”

            “Oh good. We’re golden, then.” He grinned, and kissed her again.

           

**Spring, 2014**

_Anthony,_

_I woke up this morning after dreaming of flight, and my mind returned to a certain sketch I sent you nine years ago._

 

            (A sketch of the inner workings of a set of rocket boots followed.)

_Do you remember the running shoes? This was very little more than some offbeat tinkering, but I fancied the idea of replacing Captain America’s Tinker Bell boots with these, and watching him fly into things. I imagine a jetpack or wrist braces would be needed for flight stabilizing, and these are much less energy efficient than, I’m sure, your own. Regardless, footage from the battle makes me aware that his arms are graceful but his feet are not, and he would crash into buildings regardless. I simply wanted to share the imagery._

(Next, a cartoon of Captain America skidding, feet flying up from under him, with a speech bubble, “Whoa!”)

           

            _Hope you’re having a wonderful day._

_Your friend,_

_E._

            Tony spread the sheet back out and grinned.

            The markings on it indicated it had been sent to Malibu, initially, but he had a rush policy on anything labeled from E. A ridiculous name, really, and not even his writer’s, but regardless, it was the only return address signed, and never failed to make his day.

            Grabbing the torn envelope, letter, and steaming coffee mug, he mounted the steps down to his workshop in the tower. The entire penthouse had been redone in a more understated way. He called it ‘mature’, but secretly considered it fallen. Once AIM had destroyed Malibu as well, and he had not had the heart to put it back as it was before. He felt, suddenly, too old for it all, as though the grey on his temples now defined him, wrung out of juice and color like an old sponge. What he had believed was a rebirth he felt keenly as a loss when he traded one conquest for another, and in turn lost both; Pepper was gone, romantically speaking, the suits were gone, even the familiar hum and power in his chest was gone, and he felt naked and plain without it all.

            Of course, he wasn’t a fool; he had destroyed the hard copy, but the plans were clear as day, and locking himself in his workshop for a fortnight brought them all back. It was the better therapy for losing Pepper of the two he’d engaged in; the moment he had left the workshop he had gone three sheets to the wind with Rhodey, intending some meaningless hook-up, but ending up sobbing on his oldest friend all night, clawing hugs out of his too-formal companion and letting Happy take him home early. He was a wreck.

            Even since the War Machine betrayal, their friendship might have been tenuous. He was never quite sure if all the hostilities had dissipated from him leaving weapons development, but he didn’t dare exhume them by asking. E., it seemed, was the only constant in his life.

            Part of that may have been that he had a copy of every interaction they had ever had, and could review it if ever baffled. Also, it was simplified down to words, so he couldn’t be remanded for an ill-placed grin, and if his train of thought drifted during conversation, and he had to read it again, who would ever know? They never had a return address, so he wasn’t expected to reply and was therefore given no chance to screw it up.

            The letter wasn’t conventionally affectionate, not the sort of sap Tony actively avoided, simply a gentle reminder of the time he’d been hearing from him, and basely useless. This time, there were no real designs he was expected to market, just something flippant and silly, but sometimes he got designs. Nothing weaponized, ever; the longest letter he had received had come after his announcement, excited and babbling.

            He smiled, put it in a drawer, and finished his coffee. Time to prepare for the day.

 

***

 

            Agent Phil Coulson speaks fluent Spanish, and at the moment he was immensely grateful for it. He carried his suit jacket over one arm, sleeves rolled up, a bewildered and cantankerous Fury following him, walking with purpose in an uncertain direction. The problem with the director, he’d found, was that he doesn’t bother with confusion, skipping straight into rageful frustration.

            “First, intel says he’s in _Los Mochis_ , not a _small_ city, if I may say so, and then that’s an approximation, so we check _Topolobampo_ , which shouldn’t even be a _word_ , where we find a residence _evacuated_ , and now we don’t even know if our target is _male_ or _female_ …” He threw his hands up. “I am not a glorified errand boy, Agent! When you said you found something I _assumed_ th-”

           “We don’t have much intel for this area, sir. In this part of Mexico, there aren’t that many databases for this kind of thing.” Coulson proceeded to fan himself with the regrettably thin folder they had, professionalism long abandoned in the sticky heat. “This had to happen in July, didn’t it?” He muttered.

            Regardless, the residence they were searching yielded some evidence. Clearly the richest house in the poor neighborhood, their were a few slant-ways signs in the front: ‘WE SPEAK ENGLISH’, ‘KNOCK FOR MEDICAL ASSISTANCE’, and ‘Donations Accepted!’, all repeated in Spanish, Additionally, they’d had difficulty entering past the veritable jungle of plant-life and bouquets left at the door. The tags told that about half were friends or family of the man the engineer had saved according to the NYT, long since come and gone, but others remained a mystery.

A few abandoned, scrapped blueprints remained, scattered throughout mostly empty drawers. It was a low-tech environment, all things considered, little more than a basement, hung with paintings by local artists of which only a few seem to have been left and any useful, portable tool must’ve gone with their target.

            “Seems our friend is a bit of a local celebrity,” Fury noted, pulling open one drawer that bloomed paper, bursting out so a few scattered, all ‘ _muchas gracias_ ’ and messily scrawled letters of debt. Crouching to pick one off the floor, Fury began to attempt to read it. Too bad he took French in high school.

            Phil Coulson’s mind worked in step with his. “Maybe we should ask the locals.”

 

***          

 

            Revealing themselves as ‘friends of the doctor’ got them even more attention than a white and black guy in suits and an eye-patch would’ve gotten initially. Crowding and yelling in words Nick Fury couldn’t understand, he visibly flinched when an old woman came through the crowd and tried to get him to kiss a baby.

            Coulson, translating as much as he could, spoke rapidly, mostly conveying the words ‘Bring her/him back’ variably. A man hit the agent with his cane, blaming him for ‘the good doctor’s departure.

            Fury looked about ready to burst a blood vessel. “I wasn’t going to say this, but I think I _preferred_ the _New_ Mexico. Anything in particular we’re looking for?”

            His query was interrupted with a kid of maybe fourteen shouting “Sirs! Sirs! You speak English?”

            Coulson used strength he’d forgotten in exhaustion to push through the crowd. “Yes! Yes we do. Who are you?”

            The kid had a slanted baseball cap and clothes to big for his skinny frame. His accent was atrocious. “ _Mario. Mario Roman_. I’m a friend of Derek!”

            “Derek?” Fury turned to Coulson. “Is that who we’re looking for?”

            Mario frowned. “I think you’re looking for Lex, right? The good doctor?”

            “The engineer.”

            The kid grinned. “Yeah! That’s the one, _si, si_. You’re no _journalistas_ , yes?”

            They both stared him down. Fury finally responded. “Do we look like reporters?”

            Mario shrugged. “No camera, _y mas formal_. She just told me to ask.”

            “Who?” Coulson asked.

            The kid just laughed. “She did. Either of you named ‘Stane’?”

            That really made Fury frown. “No.”

            “Oh, good.”

            “Why?”

            “Well, if you were, Derek made me promise to hit you in the gut and run. Scary guy, or something. You guys don’t seem that scary.”

            Nick Fury raised his eyebrow. Coulson made a note in his folder, scrawling names without turning to him. “Mexico has a different definition of scary, sir.”

            Mario laughed again. “Yeah, yeah. You’re not white enough to scare me.” Then, he ducked and flinched, afraid he’d get hit.

            Coulson simply carried on. “Do you know where ‘Lex’ is?”

            “She’s travelling through Los Mochis. Or she was. The plan was for Ahome.”

            Fury turned to Coulson. “Ahome? Weren’t six people executed there a week ago?”

            Before Coulson could respond the affirmative, Mario piped up. “Dangerous place. _De las almas perdidas_ , you know? _Sabes_?” He shrugged. “That’s border towns for you.”

            “Ahome’s not on the border.”

            Mario shrugged again. “Close enough. Want the number?”

            “Pardon?”

            “ _Numero_? For Lex?”

            Coulson almost lurched forward, eager beyond belief, but training left him only turning sharply. He hoped the guy they were after was worth it. “Yes.”

            The kid gave him a shit-eating grin. “Then you’ll have to pay for it.”

            Fury rolled his eyes. “Shouldn’t you be selling _chicle_ or something?”

            Mario frowned stubbornly. “No _‘dinero’_ , no _‘numero’_.”

            Coulson considered pulling a gun, before reminding himself that he was already a sore thumb in Mexico, so he might die twice before hitting the ground. And anyway, it was too early in the day for international incidents. “How much?”

            “ _Cien_. A hundred.”

            “Oh, fucking hell.” Fury cursed, while Natasha’s words echoed in Coulson’s head: _Beware the beautiful children_. It had seemed strange at the time. He unclipped his money and palmed out two twenties. “The rest after I call.”

            Mario frowned again, but fired it off, memorized. Fury punched it in and dialed.

            A gum-smacking teen picked up. _“This is Derek. Lex is out. Whattup?”_

            Fury pulled the phone from his face. “The number’s right.” Still, as Coulson counted out the other three, the Director stilled his hand. “Don’t pay him.”

            “What?!” The kid began to cuss in rapid Spanish, shouting at them things Coulson didn’t care to translate, and some things he frankly couldn’t.

            “This is SHIELD.”

            _“Wha?”_

            He sighed. “This is the American government.” Fury continued over the phone.

            _“Oh! Yeah, we’ve been expecting you. We’re in Ahome. Mario told you we’re in Ahome, right? And you could’ve just looked around, Lex left a business card in the oven.”_

            “The oven?” he asked, skeptical.

            _“Yeah, always the last place you look, right? I’ll let her know you called. When’ll you get here? Because she’ll be in surgery for the next hour.”_

            The Director didn’t bother parsing that, who ‘she’ was or what the operation was about. He was simply relieved and distracted. “We’ll be there in two.” Hanging up without flourish, Fury stilled Mario with a hand and a look, a very slight smirk playing on his lips. He didn’t bother pulling away his phone. “Take this as a lesson in American business, kid. The big guy will _always_ screw you over. Jamie, bring the jet around.”

            Coulson checked the oven.

 

***

 

            Possibly the least satisfying thing about owning an entire building where you eat, sleep, and work, was missing the morning drive-in. The Monday morning commute, for an average New Yorker, was nothing to write home about, excepting the fact that you could write an Ayn Rand thesis between the time you revved your engine and the time you pulled into a parking space, and many walked, bused, or carpooled anyway, but to a person as infatuated with cars as Tony Stark, missing the opportunity to use them was a tragedy comparable to the death of a pet. Well, not exactly true; Tony had never had a pet, but it was on the list of things he wanted to do before he died, as was surprising Pepper Potts, which was how he found himself, at that precise moment, in his blue and white 1967 Shelby Cobra (modified, of course) on his way to Ithaca, New York, to give the Cornell lecture he had promised Virginia he would.

            Nothing felt quite as American as driving a blue car with a white suit and red sunglasses on, the green North American plain rolling by and the wind in your still-perfect hairline, all, of course, bought with money earned from principally American consumers. He enjoyed his drives, and after all, this little appointment was a chance to drive the car.

            And so, at the moment, he felt trapped within the smooth, clear-water pages of a Robert Penn Warren novel as green hillside with the occasional bumpkin villager rolled by. Of course, this wasn’t the old South; he saw only evergreens and white people. Still, literature wasn’t quite his thing, he was only into it because Pepper had this habit of reading it before bed, and reading it to him was the best way to actually, after 52 hours of intense lab-work, fall asleep.

            And it was that moment that the phone rang.

            His personal phones had never had more than six unblocked contacts, a number that dropped down to four when his parents died and three when Obadiah tried to kill him. That now included only Pepper, Rhodie, and the doctor he sent his bloodwork to, because next time, he’d like warning if he was about to die, thanks much. As in more than a few weeks to a month. (He’d contemplated giving the number to Bruce as well, but the good doctor had waved him off with the rational protest that he himself did not carry a phone, too easy for military to track, so it would be of no use to him.) Therefore, he answered before a second ring could issue without feeling any great need for professionalism.

            “Stark Naked Pornography, this is Tony speaking.”

            “Hey, Tony,” Rhodie’s voice garbled through the Bluetooth. Damn army technology. “Have you seen the newspaper this morning?”

            “Uh, no. Did my house burn down? Because I don’t think I was drunk enough to do that the other night. Well, I was drunk enough, but see, I wasn’t in Malibu, so …”

            “No, Tony, but you did make page six. Apparently, you’re getting old.”

            “Old?!” Tony sputtered. “I’ll have you know I have retained my girlish figure remarkably well for a lass of mere forty, you cad! And besides, I don’t even need Viagra yet.”

            “Forty-two, Tony.”

            “Never ask a lady her age. Besides, since when does anyone care how old I am?”

            Rhodey pointedly cleared his throat and Tony could hear a newspaper unfurl in the background. “ _Teen Genius Builds a Bionic Heart. Sources in Mexico today have confirmed that a young engineer, estimated between the ages sixteen and eighteen, has built a working heart. No, not your grandmother’s ventricular assistance devices of the past, this small titanium alloy piece of one and a half pounds can not only aid the heart, but entirely replace it, hooking in and receiving signal from the sinusoidal node itself._ ”

            “Cool, cool. Where are we going with this?”

            “Wait, Tony. Patience. ‘ _While sources close to the teen have confirmed this to be a breakthrough long in the making, the use of the intricate, almost music-box device was confirmed less than a week ago when a neighbor’s degenerative lunar valve condition prevented him from standing. Julio Cabarez, a man of 43 from the same small beach town outside of Los Mochis in Sinaloa, finally consented to the engineer’s replacement for his heart, and was up walking, working, and providing for his family four days after the surgery. Much like his remarkable magnetized solution to his heart’s own death sentence, the world is hailing this teenager, known only to the press and friends as Lex, as the new Tony Stark._ ”

            There was a long moment as Tony paused to digest the information. “Well, the kid’s probably a one-trick pony, I m-”

            Rhodey interrupted. “ _Though any true information could not be confirmed about the identity of the mystery genius, it was stated that this was simply an early work in a long chain of projects, including a complete set of human kidneys the press was not allowed access to, and that currently, the teen is attempting to master the human liver. Reports have yet to be confirmed as news teams discovered last night that the miracle-worker has, in fact, left Los Mochis with no confirmed destination._ ”

            Another pause. His car hugged the mountainside road and turned quickly. “Get him for me. I need him. Our med tech team has been getting a little stale. No, wait, I’ll call Pepper. He can work for SI, build shit, we hire the best and the brightest, right? He’s living in the Mexican boonies; I’ll offer him six figures, make his day, he’ll die of happiness.”

            “See, that’s the thing, Tony. He’s gone. Can’t find him. And now the military wants him. It’s a little above my paygrade, but I’ve heard some buzz that this kid is the real deal. SHIELD might be interested.”

            “Don’t be ridiculous; the kids not a superhero! He’s a nerd. One breakthrough story, that’s all it takes to be on SHIELD’s radar?”

            “Hey, I don’t run the system, Tony. I just work for it. Anyway, their job is to investigate every lead. The kid could be the genuine artifact. He could be the next you.”

            Tony hummed skeptically, making another sharp turn. “You’re pushin’ it, Rhodey. No one can be me.”

 

***

         

            Pepper Potts had been, frankly, naïve regarding what the job entailed when taking it. If she had known better, she may have not hassled Tony so much about the number of meeings he missed.

            She had expected to be busy, to make many calls and utilize languages she didn’t even speak, but the gravitas of assholery was past her Official Stark-Patented Bullshit Threshold. Her Tuesday morning had begun with a meeting with the head of the Japanese division as well as the COO of company that had controlling interest in the tech manufacturing in the region, and thus was sorely needed. That isn’t to say he was the brains of this operation, or any, simply the very necessary overseas brawn. There was no reasonable rationale for him occupying not only the primary hour of her day, but an extra, unscheduled 45 minutes of her time simply to crow about his superior’s necessity and prowess. The only small comfort had been her confidant from Stark’s small instillation in that part of the East, Ronin, sitting behind him and cringing in a manner synchronized with her own internal reactions. It was apparent half of the trouble had been the COO’s anger at his superior being a woman. But no, you couldn’t call him on it, or usher him out, because he was Japanese and there is a blurry line there between personal offence and business coordination.

            This, of course, had put her entire day behind by a full hour, and she had been catching up by rushing later meetings ever since. The fortunate thing was that, due to the historical tendency of being made to wait by both Tony and Howard Stark before her, even Stane, the American contacts had simply brought a book and been patient, filled with gratitude that once, in the history of their company’s relationship to Stark, someone had at least eventually made their meeting, even if they cut it down by half. By the time she had finally caught up, power-walking in surprisingly comfortable Stuart Weisman’s, her typical hour lunch had been cut down to a quarter of that, enough time to grab a raspberry parfait, rest her feet, and check her emails.

            Just as she had perched on her chair to do that, her phone rang. She grabbed it, wrist poised to hurl it through the window, but it was saved from 36th story defenestration by the image of Tony in cherry-red sunglasses that popped up to inform her it was both a person she really didn’t have time for right now as well as someone she couldn’t, in her heart of hearts, screen and refuse to answer.

            “Hello Tony. I’m really busy and I have about five minutes to eat,” she rattled off as she tapped in her username and password to her corporate email. “So, could we keep this short and sweet?”

            “Ouch. Management is a bitch, okay.” The laugh in his voice made it easy to dismiss, but the background road noise piqued her curiosity.

            “Where are you? I hear wind.”

            “Oh, just on a drive. You know, to Ithaca. Beautiful hills, scenery, wish you could be here.”

            “Some of us have work to do,” she grumbled, kicking off her shoes to put her feet on the desk as she noted an email from a strange sender titled ‘first.name.agent@gmail.com’. She frowned. “Cornell?”

            “Yeah, I have a commitment there tomorrow. You know, lecture?” She could hear the shit-eating grin over the phone. “Anyway, have you seen the paper today?”

            “Not yet,” she allowed, the message popping up on her screen.

 

To: Pepper Potts, [p.potts@stark.com](mailto:p.potts@stark.com)

From: Phil Coulson, [first.name.agent@gmail.com](mailto:first.name.agent@gmail.com)

Sent: Tue Aug 6 12:42:07 EST 2013

 

Ms. Potts,

            SHIELD needs another floor in Stark Tower, complete with lab and apartment, preferably with a kitchenette. Please respond as to whether this is feasible upon receiving.

            - Coulson

_Sent from my iPhone_

 

            “Well, flip to page six.”

            “Tony,” She sighed. “What did I just tell you about being busy? Give me the recap,” she asserted, tapping out a response.

 

To: Phil Coulson, [first.name.agent@gmail.com](mailto:first.name.agent@gmail.com)

From: Pepper Potts, [p.potts@stark.com](mailto:p.potts@stark.com)

Sent: Tue Aug 6 1:36:51 EST 2013

 

Agent Coulson,

            Personal email? Where did they send you, Guam? Please inform SHIELD that Stark Tower is not their new Comfort Inn with a better security system. However, as it is you asking, the answer is yes. Anything I need to know about our latest guest?

            - Pepper Potts

            CEO of Stark International

            Guardian of Tony Stark

 

            “Tsk, tsk, Potts. Shouldn’t you be up to date on current events? Kid. Wicked smart. Engineer. Recruit him or something.”

            She sighed. “Tony, we’re not a football team. We don’t headhunt for talent. We’re a company.”

            “Hey, we have a, um, Young Engineers Scholarship or something, right?”

            “Oh do we? You haven’t shown up to the benefit for a good two years, Tony, so I’m not sure that it’s ‘ours’, exactly.”

 

To: Pepper Potts, [p.potts@stark.com](mailto:p.potts@stark.com)

From: Phil Coulson, [first.name.agent@gmail.com](mailto:first.name.agent@gmail.com)

Sent: Tue Aug 6 1:39:12 EST 2013

 

Ms. Potts,

            No, just Sinaloa, Mexico. And no, SHIELD never expected you to serve breakfast. The security is appreciated. I’m afraid all I can tell you can already be found on page six of the NYT; anything else is above civilian clearance until the paperwork is handled. This one shouldn’t be much trouble though.

-        Coulson

_Sent from my iPhone_

            “It’s the C.E.O.’s job anyway,” he grumbled.  
            “Of course, Tony,” she replied distractedly, finally opening the paper. “I’m looking into it right now. Got to go.”  
            “Okay, honey,” he joked. “I’ll be at school. Buh-bye.”

 

***

 

            As it turned out, as with the other residence, they weren’t technically ‘in’ Ahome, outside city limits in the most bizarre and rural place you could find a person. It was fortunate they took the number, as it resulted with the two men in a helicopter, Coulson listening as Derek drawled out blasé direction and Coulson gesticulating for the pilot, all involved very much irritated.

            It ended with the pilot landing neatly outside of a tomato farm only to narrowly miss the coop of a chicken farmer, resulting in many irascible fowl and an excess of chicken shit on the Director’s patent leather shoes, and, once again, the house they had come to was the nicest in the area. That is to say, it seemed to violate the least building codes.

            One level, half painted turquoise and partially repainted salmon pink, the papier-mâché look was damaged by the obviousness of the paints’ age, at least two, maybe three decades and faded accordingly. Unlike their neighbors, the house wasn’t tilting to one side. An overly beefed out, likely 70’s ambulance sat in front of the house, sides proclaiming ‘RUZ ROIA MEXICANA’ where it originally said ‘cruz roja’, though the letters of ‘AMBULANCIA’ seemed to have been meticulously kept up. As they walked around to enter, they noted the top was strapped with an old mattress and some sleeping bags, as well as duffels oozing out the sides. It seemed a well-loved vehicle, sitting beside a slightly more modern and upkept Kawasaki Ninja.

            “Next time, I’m sending Romanov.” Fury growled, Coulson mounting the two squeaking steps to the doorway to wrap on the torn screen’s white plastic frame gently.

            A scant two seconds later, a young, native woman answered the door, buxom with dark hair cascading over one shoulder. A shy smile on her heart-shaped face, she laughed. “ _Ah,_ _si, los Americanos_?” Coulson agreed, and she flipped her hair to turn, revealing a long scar by her collarbone and an unexpectedly loud voice. “ _Lex! Tus amigos formales estan aqui!_ ”

            “ _Que? Quien?_ ”

            “ _Americanos del cielo,_ ” she laughed. “ _Huelen mal._ ”

            A laugh came from the other room. “ _Si, si, no hay problema._ ”

            “ _Bienvenidos_ , come in,” she smiled.

            Coulson figured that would be the moment to reveal he spoke Spanish, but he didn’t bother and walked right past.

            After passing through two cramped, L-shaped hallways, they rounded a corner to find a kind of open-air patio, walled on two sides with simple netting. The one room, initially, was separated into a larger area and a room half it’s size by curtains, opaque on the outside of that, but transparent between. The smaller was a bedroom, with an old, humming 90’s computer and a black kid of about Mario’s age within, tapping away at it. Coulson assumed that was Derek.

            The larger room looked like Stark’s workroom had met a budget, been shipped out with Bruce Banner, and then morphed with Gepetto’s workshop. Counters rimmed the solid edge against the house, all holding various sizes and complexities of what a passerby might see as the innards of an overly-complex musicbox, though one section seemed to hold a completely dismantled Stark missile, definitely five-plus years old. A machine of blue rubber and tubes pumped steadily in the corner, though neither Fury nor Agent Coulson could make heads or tails of it. A box big enough to fit a couple motorcycles in sat in the corner, full of scrap metal, and a blow torch sat beside it, making obvious where the supplies came from, and the words _‘made in a cave, with a box of scraps’_ came to Fury’s mind, unbidden. Two large metal tables sat waist-high in the center of the room and it smelled with the tang of alcohol, one brimming with equipment and scattered scraps, two small, fist-sized balls mounted in the center, conglomerates of rubber and metal, while the other table was empty. A large, white cloth with blood stains was crumpled awkwardly in the corner and an open duffel back with all kinds of instruments sat by it, and a stack of physiology texts and paperwork, along with one on Physics and Engineering.

           “Sorry, I’d just finished when you got here,” a voice began, rounding the corner and pushing the net to come in from outside. Clearly an American by the accent, she flashed a radiant smile of perfect teeth. Dark curls pulled back in a ponytail, sweating and wearing a bra under nothing more than a wife beater, it became immediately abundantly clear their target was female. In addition, she had a small, Hispanic two year-old balanced on the side of her hip, arms wrapped around her neck. “Quite an entrance though, boys. I’ll be hearing from Paulo.” The snicker was cut short when she raised the mug from her other hand to sip some coffee.

            Of the very few expectations Coulson had, she didn’t quite meet any of them, he noted as she set the kid down on the edge of the clear table, watching as he sat and stabilized, cooing back the name ‘Nicholas’, another for him to scrawl in his ledger. “Derek! Could you grab him?” The kid they’d spotted coming in glanced up and came quickly, the rebelliousness they’d heard on the phone all but vanished. A roguish grin turned back to him and he noted blood on her upper arm. Coulson nodded to it, and she picked up a dirty rag to remove it, leaving a dark streak in its wake. Grey-washed loose jeans, more befitting a man, sat on her hips as did the worn, cheap, knock-off tennis shoes everyone around here wore. She had enough muscle to be a welder, but barely, thin and slight of form, and an inch under Coulson’s height.

            She looked mostly neat and clean-cut American enough to not fit in this region, but, Coulson figured, every Agent he’d seen looked out of place most anywhere. Except Bruce Banner. Something about that guy. Still, she radiated ‘north of the border’, and that begged the question of how she’d ended up there.

            In the silence, she had turned to survey the copter, craning her long neck around. “Got any scraps on that? I mean, not running low, but you might have some good stuff. Any Stark tech?”

            “That’s not what we came for,” Coulson answered, as the same time as Fury said “We might.”

            The director wandered over to the tinker toys on the counter, picking up the nearest one and looking to Lex, as though she’d freak. She shrugged. “Prototype. Go too far left, I’ll tell you to keep your greasy paws to yourself.”

            Coulson interrupted to step forward. “Lex, I presume?”

            “Lex Luxemburg,” she agreed, taking his hand with unexpected force. “But you have me at a disadvantage. You are?”

            “Agent Phil Coulson, of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division.”

            She grinned. “SHIELD? I like it. What do you need with me? I was expecting MedTech or something.” She turned back to see Fury lifting another piece of pocket-size tech. “Hey, Cyclops. Got a name?”

            “Nick Fury. Director.” He answered musingly. “Why so small?”

            She laughed. “My mom worked for most her life at Apple Co., so there’s that influence. I thought of installing them with a Shuffle. Specifically, though? That’s the makings of a bionic eye, Director. I abandoned it; a better one was invented before that, but I keep it around for the nerve-tech I developed. Complex wiring, that. Anyway, human organs need to be pretty small.”

            “And you do this all with nothing but what you have here?”

            “What else? Not a rich country, Nick.” Turning back to Coulson, she continued. “What do you need of me?”

            “I know you tend to remain a bit isolated,” he said, running his hand along the counter, “… but have you heard of The Avengers?”

            “I …” she squinted. “…think so?”

            Coulson put his briefcase on the table, pulling it open to remove a rather large folder. “Do you have chairs, stools, something?” She nodded. “Good. This might take a while.”

**Author's Note:**

> Lex, 17 turning 18 in 2013, was born 1995, therefore, likely sired in 1994. Tony Stark therefore had his company and was 23 by then. My story is this: he came back to MIT for some sort of commencement speech or alumni function, and slept around. Hence, while still in the heyday of his bad judgment, (as in “Heyy ;) Remember me, Tony?” “Sure don’t.”) he knocked someone up. Someone smart.  
> If you liked it, if you didn't, or if you found a factual inaccuracy, I would love it if you left a comment.


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